i will be your slaughterhouse
by cithrin
Summary: The Soldier was given a direct order to kill her. And he will carry it out... in due time. Pre-MCU.


1.

 _Nothing is slower than the true birth of a man_ \- Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian

* * *

The roof was a cold and solitary place, as most roofs are. It offered a perfect vantage point into the apartment. He sat there with the sniper rifle leaning on his metal arm, counting down the seconds with the precision of a digital clock.

The target was the general's daughter. HYDRA had to send a message about insubordination. Traitors would be dealt with in a swift, unflinching manner. They would do the father the courtesy of not torturing her. It would be very clean, but quite final.

Tansy was her name, derived from the flower " _Tanacetum vulgare"_ \- an invasive plant which was not very attractive. The Soldier did not have to block it from his mind. He felt no remorse. The name did not humanize her.

The lights suddenly came on in the hallway. The muscles in his body reacted like a well-oiled machine. The part of him that _was_ machine was only too glad to get this over with. He enjoyed finishing a job because it meant completion, fulfillment. He was obsessive about carrying out his orders.

The girl walked into the living room and dumped her keys on a small glass table. She slipped out of her shoes and went to lounge on the sofa, keeping her back to the man who was watching her from afar. Evidently, she wasn't doing it on purpose. It was a stroke of luck.

Tansy rubbed at her ankles for a few minutes. He could see the press of her fingers at her heel, but not much else. The Soldier waited for her to rise and move into an accessible position.

She grabbed her phone from her purse and started scrolling, still massaging her foot with one hand.

The Soldier knew he hadn't been assigned to kill her _just_ because she was the general's daughter, although that was a large part of it. The truth was, she was also privy to some classified information. Daddy liked to unburden himself to her. One bullet through the head should fix that.

She flexed her heel, dragging her toes against the carpet. He watched the movement and counted how many nerves he could incapacitate in just one foot. Hell, he could tear it off of her.

Tansy rose after what felt like hours, and walked calmly towards the bedroom. She kept on her blouse but she wriggled out of the skirt and pantyhose.

The Soldier prepared his shot. He was insensible to the female form, whichever way it presented itself.

Tansy dropped on the bed and put her head in her hands, a sign of exhaustion or despair – he couldn't tell. She rubbed at her temple and her eyes. She stayed like that for a few moments. It almost looked like she was praying.

 _Say your last prayers_ , he almost thought. Because maybe there is an instinct inside of us that warns us when we are about to die, that prepares us.

What happened next, however, was not something he had envisioned.

Tansy leaned back on her elbows. She let her hand fall across her chest, squeezing her own breasts through the fabric, almost as if deciding on their weight. And then she slipped that same hand into her underwear.

The Soldier stood stock-still, watching her through the scope. She was stroking herself rhythmically, her face scrunched up in concentration. Her lips were parted, breathing unevenly. Her hair was falling in her face.

She was deeply immersed in her own body. She wanted to get off quickly.

He could shoot her now…but he would interrupt her. And that would be a little unseemly.

It wasn't that he hadn't seen pornography before. He had killed people while they were in the middle of copulation. He had killed people halfway through some very lewd, very shameful acts.

But he had never killed anyone while they were masturbating. It…shouldn't make a difference, really. But there was something about the selfish, vulnerable loneliness of the act. Something about coming home to an empty apartment, not even bothering to undress properly, and slipping fingers inside of yourself. Craving that one-sided intimacy.

In his quarters at HYDRA, he had sometimes _thought_ about touching himself, but never had. The thought was more like a memory from another life. His body was foreign to him now, and he did not want to engage with it in something so primeval.

This woman, however, had no such qualms. It mattered that it was a _she_ , though he couldn't consciously understand why. In some distant, dead part of his brain it was something of note.

He looked through the scope again.

 _Odd…_

She was nearing climax, he could see that, but she was also…crying. There were tears in her eyes, and they were not the product of ecstasy. She was sad, immeasurably sad, and she was getting off to try and block the pain.

When she finally came, a powerful shudder made her fall down on the floor. She sat there on her knees, sobbing, while she was wracked with temporary pleasure.

The Soldier briefly looked away. There was something abject about her at that moment.

Tansy shuddered one last time and wiped at her tear-stained eyes.

His internal clock kept ticking. He was lagging behind. He prided himself on his punctuality, but he was already several minutes off. He should have killed her at 11:30. It was now 11:51.

He'd get a call at midnight, asking him if he had finished the job. He could say _Da_ , or _Nyet_. And if it was _Nyet_ , he'd have to elaborate and add _pregrajdenye_ – obstruction, interception.

Tansy clambered to her feet unevenly, and walked to the window, almost as if she was begging him to take the shot. If only she knew.

She looked out at the city with a cruel, sad mouth. Her lips were twisted in disdain, as if the world around her was, overall, unsatisfying. Maybe he would have done her a favor, had he killed her.

Through his scope, he could see the downy hairs on her thighs and legs. She hadn't shaved in a few days. She looked like a young fawn, except there was something brittle and cold about her. He didn't know why it mattered that she had not shaved...that she was, in some way, unkempt.

No hair could ever grow on his metal arm.

It was nearing midnight.

Tansy leaned her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes.

She was offering him her head, and she didn't even know it.

Suddenly he recalled a room at the Tretyakov Gallery. He recalled the oil painting. John the Baptist's head on a silver platter. It had been cut off for the occasion. But who was the woman in the painting? The one who held the platter proudly? The one who was to blame? What was her _name_? He hated when even his recent memories got muddled, when his brain was not cooperating as it should.

He got the call at midnight sharp. Tansy was still reclined against the window. He could do it in half a second, if he cared to.

Instead, he answered his phone.

" _Nyet_. _Pregrajdenye_."

He clicked it shut, because the person on the other end didn't want to know the details. They all knew he was a one-minded individual and that an order for him was a sacred direction. He followed it to death. He hadn't done it now. But he would kill her in the near future.

Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in an hour.

Tansy lifted her head from the window and walked away, ungratefully taking back her life.

* * *

 _A/N: Just something I've been contemplating...hope you liked it. And yeah, this story is a bit rough around the edges._


End file.
